


The Adventure Of The Dutch Princess

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [39]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Impersonation, Killing, M/M, Royalty, Slow Burn, Sulking Sherlock, The Netherlands, United States, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A woman commits murder – of that there is no doubt – but there is a problem. She may or may not be a princess of Orange, in which case trying her could be difficult. Sherlock takes a hand and ferrets out a mole.





	The Adventure Of The Dutch Princess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otala/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

As I mentioned in the last case, the adventure later related as _The Sign Of The Four_ that occurred shortly after the Branson Case was where Watson met Miss Mary Morstan, who was to become his second wife. Two more cases followed soon after, published respectively as _“Silver Blaze”_ and _”The Cardboard Box”_. Despite her fragile appearance there was iron behind the velvet in the soon to be Mrs. Watson Mark II, and over time my brother would gradually come to see less of his friend. For now however he went off in what was definitely not a prolonged sulk, whatever anyone said. 

Kean you bastard, I can _hear_ you smirking!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Esquire_

I was not, as Mr. Hardland so wrongly put it, sulking. I had said to Sherry that his huge friend was hugely mistaken in his opinion, and my soon to be ex-brother had remarked that his lover was indeed huge. In all areas.

 _How_ were we related?

In truth Mycroft had asked me to place myself at the disposal of the Dutch government, who needed assistance in what he described as 'a delicate matter'. I was to meet a Mr. Marten van Tromp – an excellent name for a Hollander – who, Mycroft said, served a similar purpose to the one he did for the British Government. Hopefully with a few degrees less pomposity!

I had not seen any historical pictures of the great admiral for whom my contact had been made, but even so, he could surely have hardly been less like his illustrious namesake if he had tried. He was short, unprepossessing and generally windblown, but there was something in his eyes and the set of his face that betook intelligence. And he would not be holding such an important position if he had not had the ability. We adjourned to a room at the club I had been directed to in Amsterdam, and once the servant who had brought our drinks had left us and (I noted) locked the door, he began.

“You may be aware”, he said, “that a few months ago our king, William the Third, was declared mentally incapable. A regency council is now ruling for his sole surviving child, his young daughter Wilhelmina.”

_(A historical aside, because I know Watson would have asked had he been there. The current Dutch king was William III because, when the nation had formally become a kingdom back in 1815, the monarchical numbers had been reset. The more famous bearer of that title, known as 'King Billy' or 'William of Orange', had been King of England, Scotland and Ireland (1689-1702) but only Statholder, a sort of elected president, of the Netherlands (1672-1702). And they were 'of Orange' because their ancestors originally ruled a tiny area around the town of Orange in what is now southern France)._

“I did read about that”, I said.

“I have to say that his has not been a happy reign”, Mr. van Tromp sighed. “The king has grossly mishandled Luxembourg of which he is Grand Duke, upset the Belgians, crossed parliament, and offended you British despite your support against the rising threat of Prussian Germany. His second marriage, to a woman over four decades his junior also scandalized many, although at least that has turned out better than we had feared, and most certainly a lot better than his first. And the number of bastards he has fathered over the years – even counting just those that he has acknowledged, it is well into the thirties.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. Even England's most prolific monarch in that department, Henry the First, had only made it into the low twenties. And a certain English medic was responsible for that piece of clutter in my mind as well, damn him!

“It is one of those that is the problem, I suppose?” I asked, sipping at a coffee that was quite delicious. I would definitely be asking where it had come from as part of my inquiries (I could almost hear Watson rolling his eyes at that!).

“Yes”, my host said with a sigh. “One Mary King – she has changed her name; her mother's name is Barton. She was in court the other week, and it was then that she made the claim privately through her lawyer. Most regrettably, inquiries made this far indicate that she may be telling the truth.”

“What crime did she stand accused of?” I asked.

“Murder.”

Ah.

“So it would doubly be in her interests to claim such a thing”, I mused, “not just for her own benefit but to save her own neck. Even if there were only small justification behind such a claim, the press would have a field-day when her associates 'just happened' to leak the story to them shortly before her scheduled execution. And even if it were to be disproved many would still believe the whole thing to be a government cover-up.”

Which, I thought silently, is the fault of too many government officials like my brother who behaved in a way that often justified that cynicism. As in so many other fields, one reaps what one sows. My host nodded.

“All in all it does not look good”, he said glumly. The girl is twenty-two, and around the time of her conception her mother, an American actress called Mrs. Maria Barton who was visiting the Netherlands, was indeed one of the king's favoured ladies. One of many as you might guess, but definitely a leading favourite. We have obtained reliable testimony that she was secretly smuggled into the palace on at least one occasion.”

“That is disturbing”, I said. “And little wonder than my dear brother left this to me; the passage of over two decades makes this an extremely cold case.”

Mr. van Tromp’s face fell.

“But it is therefore more of a challenge”, I said cheerily. “Let me have all the information that you have on the woman and her ancestry, and we shall see what we shall see.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I wonder how the mother of Miss Mary King feels about this?” I mused as I perused the Dutch government’s copious files on Miss King. “They are certainly thorough in your country, sir. Everything up to and including the mole on Mrs. King's left shoulder!”

“As you said in that story your friend published”, Mr. van Tromp said, “it is sometimes the smallest things that are the most revealing.”

I picked up a magnifying glass and examined a photograph which, according to the notes on the back, had been taken at a court ball (I always wondered at those; did the photographer actually _ask_ people to look mildly constipated?). The woman's husband, presuming that was the man standing next to her, looked a nasty piece of work I thought.

“Pass me the file on the woman's family, please”, I said, still looking hard at the ball photograph. 

I wondered..... maybe. Just maybe.

“We may have a lead”, I said. “But I shall have to send a telegram, and I am not sure if the person who receives it will want to help or not. Still; nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. van Tromp met me the following morning. There had been no reply to my telegram which was a little dispiriting, but then I had not really expected one.

“The prosecutor in the lady's case is definitely pushing for murder”, my host said with a sigh. “I had wondered if he would so do – there was apparently a degree of provocation in the matter – but he is determined to make his name with this case. And if she is found guilty, she will talk. That is guaranteed.”

“Tell me about the case”, I said. “Perhaps there is something there that may provide a clue.”

“Miss King stands accused of murdering a Mr. Maurice Leewarden”, Mr. van Tromp explained. “He was something of a ladies' man by all accounts, and it had been thought at one point that the two of them might marry. But there was an argument over his having seen another lady – it turned out to be his sister-in-law of all things! – and Miss King shot him. In front of two witnesses so there is no doubting it. She went into another room to fetch the gun, which of course shows premeditation, though her lawyer is arguing that it was all done in a moment of anger and because of a misunderstanding on her part. He is also saying that she is not yet twenty-one and therefore not an adult, although in this country murder is murder at eighteen.”

“When did Miss King know of her potential royal ancestry?” I asked.

“That we do not know”, my host said. “Her aunt, Mrs. Adeline Smith, arrived recently for a visit from the United States to support her, and possibly told her then.” His eyes widened. “You are not suggesting that that was what led her to....”

“I rather think that in this case, the aunt is of supreme importance”, I said firmly. “We must endeavour to call on her before she departs, as what she has to say may render my telegram unimportant. Where is she staying?”

“In this very hotel”, Mr. van Tromp said, clearly surprised by the direction of my friend's questions. “Room 201.”

“We shall send up a card at once”, I said, “and see if she will allow us to visit.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Given what I was increasingly coming to suspect, it did not surprise me that her aunt rather than her mother was here to support Miss King. Mrs. Smith was in one of the better rooms of the hotel, although not the very best. She was a lady in her early fifties though still beautiful and, I noted, most definitely nervous. As she had every reason to be.

“Thank you for allowing this visit”, I said politely. “It concerns your.... relative, Miss King.”

Her eyes widened at my unusual phrasing. Mr. van Tromp clearly noted it for he looked at me curiously.

“How much do you know?” Mrs. Smith asked.

“I rather think that I know all”, I said with a smile. “Or nearly all. I have but a few questions. First, were you a willing party to this charade?”

She nodded.

“Our father died when we were still young”, she explained, “and my mother raised us with help from her relatives. I was fortunate to meet John – my husband – shortly after I came of age, and when my mother died soon afterwards, she asked me to make sure that dear Maria was taken care of. She married Edward young and against the wishes of the rest of the family, and it was a stormy relationship until they divorced. That was the year after the four of us came to Europe on one of my husband's business trips and when she met the king.”

First vertically and soon after horizontally, I thought acidly.

“My husband is here on business”, the lady said a little defiantly. “Does he need to be informed of all this?”

“That depends on Miss King”, I said firmly. “I rather fear that she may not be amenable to keeping things quiet, unless her own wretched life is spared. Even the welfare of her family would come a poor second to saving her own neck.”

I knew from the ill-concealed sharp breath next to me that Mr. van Tromp had got it. I stood up.

“We shall depart for the moment”, I said. “I shall keep you informed of developments, madam. Discreetly.”

“Thank you”, she smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Shocking!” Mr. van Tromp said. “But she will not deal, that I guarantee.”

“That depends on the deal we offer”, I said. “I suggest a visit to the American consulate. That nation defends its own, and it would be better for them to be briefed beforehand rather than after. Besides, I rather think they may be in a position to help us.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day I finally got to meet Miss Mary King. I have to say that the potential princess did not impress me much. I know royalty cannot always be beautiful, but there was a sulky air of consequence about her which would have marred much more attractive features than hers. 

I sat opposite her and placed a copy of the court photograph in front of her and her lawyer, a fox-faced man whom I liked even less.

“What is this?” the lawyer demanded.

“Proof that your client is about as royal as I myself”, I said firmly. 

“A photograph!” Miss King scoffed. “What does that show?”

I fixed her with a look, and she visibly quailed.

“Your lawyer is fully entitled to have this particular photograph investigated”, I said calmly, “but he will find that there has been no tampering with it. The original was published in a newspaper at the time, and the photographer even remembers the event and the picture. I would draw your attention to the charming lady standing to the immediate right of the king as we look at things.”

“My mother”, the girl said.

“Your aunt”, I corrected.

“You lie!” she hissed, though I noticed that she had gone red.

“There are four other photographs of your mother”, I said quietly, “and you will note that in each she was holding something on her left arm. Hardly surprising, as she is left-handed. But the lady standing next to the king in the court photograph, a photograph that can be dated to within days of your conception, is holding her bag on her _right_ arm.”

“So?” the lawyer said archly. “People’s arms do get tired, sir.”

“Maybe”, I said, “but that set me investigating your family Miss King, and I noticed a further inconsistency. Now, your lawyer will need a magnifying glass like the one I myself used, but I would draw your attention to the left shoulder of the lady who is engaging the king's very ardent admiration. Not so much the shoulder as it happens, but what is missing. We have a second picture of the lady that we know to be Mrs. Barton along with her husband, and it shows a small but very definite mole on that shoulder – but most mysteriously, the mole has disappeared in this picture. That lady is in fact Mrs. Smith, the lady currently saying in the town – the lady who is your _real_ mother, Miss King.”

She glared at me and I wondered if she was going to try to strike me.

“Let us therefore reconstruct what actually happened around the time of your conception”, I said calmly. Mrs. Barton caught the eye of the king, even though she was married. I do not know precisely what happened but the details are not important, save to say that she then proceeded to do something that drew the attention of the authorities and which made her departure from the country highly desirable. However the Dutch Crown is not an absolute monarchy, and getting her out of the country would doubtless prove difficult.”

“The king was certainly in on the ramp, because he played a major part in what followed. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Smith swapped identities – they were similar enough in appearance to do this – and Mrs. Barton escaped the country on her sister Mrs. Smith's passport, which she would then mail back to the Netherlands. The police had no reason to stop a Mrs. Smith from leaving, after all. The plan was that, to allay suspicion, the king would pay court to your aunt in the guise of your mother for a short time, and then the latter would resume her persona, Mrs. Barton having seemingly slipped out of the country undetected.”

“Unfortunately, the best-laid plans went wrong. Mrs. Barton had indeed become pregnant with the king's child, and when Mrs. Smith followed her home on her returned passport a few months later, she found that out. Mr. Barton, finally tiring of his wife's infidelities, abandoned her soon after.”

“It was the dates that gave you away, which, albeit reluctantly, Mrs. Barton has confirmed in response to a telegram that I sent her. She arrived home in September, and discovered her pregnancy that November. Mrs. Smith arrived home in January. Mrs. Barton gave birth in May – the child sadly died – and Mrs. Smith, your real mother, gave birth to you in August. Unless the king is somehow capable of engendering elephantine pregnancies for his offspring you are clearly the child of Mrs. Smith, which is why she came here instead of her sister.”

“When you reached sixteen you were told of your convoluted background, and you saw in it an excellent chance to exploit it to your own, shameful ends. You could claim to be royal, and your real mother could not expose you without risking the ruination of her husband's business. It was only your killing of Mr. Leewarden that pre-empted your schemes, and forced you to declare your hand not to get money, but to save your miserable life.”

She broke down in tears, but I was unmoved. She was a kille, after all.

“Now”, he said firmly, “we have to deal.”

She looked up at me, hope in her eyes.

“I frankly consider you the lowest of the low”, I told her acidly, “but needs must. Your pushing this story will hurt your aunt and your mother, neither of whom deserve to be associated with the likes of you. Possibly your uncle's business will be damaged if not ruined. Also you are a United States citizen, and that country, like my own, protects its people regardless.”

I stood up and went to the door. Opening it, I admitted a sharply-dressed young blond gentleman in a brown suit.

“This is Mr. Kent Freeman”, I said, “from the United States Embassy. He will be escorting you back to your homeland, madam – but do not think that you will evade paying for your crimes. The price of your extradition is that President Hayes will write a formal letter guaranteeing the Dutch government that you will spend the rest of your natural life behind bars.”

“No!” she protested.

“I should also add that, like the majority of his countrymen, Mr. Freeman is armed”, Holmes said sharply. “Should you be foolish enough to attempt to escape at any point in the journey, he is instructed to shoot you dead. In light of your actions thus far in your wretched life, perhaps that might be for the best. Good day!”

I swept from the room leaving a crying woman behind me.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I must thank you for your excellent handling of this matter”, Mr. van Tromp said as he saw me off at the railway station. “You have spared my government much embarrassment.”

“And the unfortunate relatives of Miss King”, I said, “who despite their actions do not deserve to be associated with the woman.”

“Are you going back to England?” Mr. van Tromp asked. I shook my head.

“I have a fancy to explore the battlefields of the Crimea whilst I am in Europe”, I said. “I may go further; who knows?”

I shook his hand and left him, wondering how Watson was getting on as a married man.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Postscriptum: King William III died three years after this story was set. His then ten-year-old daughter Wilhelmina succeeded him as queen, and still (1929) rules there. The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, whose Salic laws meant that it could not be inherited by a woman, went to the seventy-three-year-old Adolphe of Nassau, William's uncle._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
